


On Moonless Nights

by Midnigtartist



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Caleb Can Sing, Comfort, M/M, Molly Is Not Okay, Nightmares, Sleep Paralysis, discription of being buried alive, written before episode 26 but it works for before or after rez I think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 16:43:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16857595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnigtartist/pseuds/Midnigtartist
Summary: On moonless nights Molly can't sleep.





	On Moonless Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Bringing more ficlets over from my tumblr. Once again unbetad so please be kind. I'm just trying to fill up the feed while I work on the next chapter of the college au lol!

Under the best circumstances, rousing from sleep is a wonderful experience, a tender, hazy moment of peace before one must once again join the waking world. The heady scent of skin on linen and the comforting weight of the sheets and the cradle of the mattress create a quiet little pocket of time that seems to be removed from the rest of the world. For a few blissful moments one is allowed to luxuriate in the mist that hovers between sleep and consciousness, slowly waking with the fluttering of eyelids and languid, satisfying stretches that resonate deep in the body. This is the ideal. Under less ideal circumstances consciousness is thrust upon an individual, jolting them awake with a painful spasm and a shock of panic throughout one's heart.

Mollymauk finds himself on the latter half of spectrum more often than he would care to admit.

His eyes fly wide as a sensation much like stumbling over the edge of a cliff overtakes him, the sudden plunge of his stomach and the accompanying wave a nausea demanding that he wake. The endless void of deep, star speckled sky greets Molly as the breath catches in the back of his throat. Hands splayed out on either side of him, fingers curled into the cold, damp earth, the rattled tiefling tries to take a slow steadying breath to calm his clamoring nerves.

And finds that he can't

Another bolt of panic strike him in the chest. His body convulses, muscles pulled taut, pressing him securely into the dirt. He tries to move his arms, but they’re heavy like lead, he tries to move his head to see what it is pinning him down, but his neck is stiff and disobedient. His shallow breath rattles in his chest as an ice cold wash of fear rolls over his paralyzed form. There's a terrible weight pressing down on his chest, forcing him to take short, gasping breaths that barely fill his fluttering lungs. His eyes, still under his control, dart rapidly from side to side seeking an escape, or an explanation in the inky blackness that surrounds him. That's when something cold and damp strikes him in the face. The suddenly, unexpected sensation causes his rebellious body to flinch. The scent of freshly upturned earth fills the air and Mollymauk feels bile rise to the back of his throat.

Another fistful of dirt hits him in the face, joining the grow pile pressing down into his chest, restricting his breath. Another, he tries to blink it back out of his eyes, tries to shake it from his hair but he's still bound in the prison of his own skin, trapped in his unmoving flesh. He can taste it in his mouth now, disgusting grit between his teeth, feels it filling up his nose. He tries to open his mouth to scream. To call out to person or people piling earth over him to stop. That's hes alive down here for god sake. He's not dead, he can't be, his heart, hammering against his ribs with bruising intent tells him that. His breath, though shallow and painful rushes in his ears and he is  _ alive _ . And though the thought rips through him like an arrow through the gut, his tongue remains lax and useless against his jaw. His lips reminded locked around the screams rasping in his chest, shredding his throat. He is alive, and he is trapped and he is going to be buried in the cold, unkind earth.

His lungs shudder violently. More dirt covers his chest and now he's choking on it, feels in packing into his ears and between his fingers and clotting in his hair and there is nothing he can do to stop it. They just keep covering him, slowly, methodically shoving dirt over him. And he can do nothing, only watch in silence, and suffocating on his fear as they return him to the ground.

And suddenly he can move again. Suddenly the dirt is gone and he can move and weight on his chest disappears and he can breath and he can  _ move _ . His body lurches upright, his legs curl up to his chest and his hands, trembling, begin to frantically scrub the earth from his skin. He’s lightheaded, can't catch his breath. His chest shudders painfully as he tries to stop himself from hyperventilating, afraid of what he might find if he were to fall unconscious again.

Molly sets his head between his knees and dry heaves a quietly as he can manages. His tail curls tight around his ankle. His arms wined their way around his chest, fingernails clawing at the empty, gaping hole in his chest. They tear into his skin, desperately attempting to pull himself closed, to fill the nothing between his ribs, to hold himself together lest the empty swallow him up whole. Like he can pull himself back together, rid himself of the looming terrible feeling that he’s missing something, a sickening wrongness that sits heavy between his lungs. The pads of his fingers run over the scars on his chest. With one hand still clutched over the empty place, Mollymauk guilds the other one over his shoulder, up his neck, feeling the raise of ink under his skin, runs it through the long, thick curls at the base of his skull that had not been there the first time he’d awoken in a grave. He pushes his bangs off his sweat slick forehead, shuddering as he's breathing slowly starts to even out. 

He removes his head from between his trembling knees, uncurling his legs, pressing a palm flat to the ground beneath him. The other remains firmly curled into his shirt, over the aching, empty place in his chest. 

Mollymauk allows himself another long moment of  focusing intently on his breathing before he brings his shaking hand up to scrub his face dry. He casts his gaze about wildly, attempting to orient himself. The air smells distinctly of smoke from the dwindling campfire and cool mulchy forest undergrowth. The icy bite of the cold northern wind helps to ground him, and Molly searches for the nearest warm body he can curl up against, painfully aware of just how alone he is in the darkness.  Before he can locate the mountain like curve of Yasha’s shoulders, or the plush mound of Jester’s overstuffed bedroll an odd sound hits his ears. Not the incessant buzz of the insects, or the thrill of an evening bird. A melody weaves its way through the shattered stillness of the night, low and steady and somehow warm despite its heavy cadence. 

Curious.

Molly pushes himself up onto trembling legs, wrapping his arms securely around his torso as he follows the inexplicable song in the direction of the dying fire’s amber glow. Picking his way around the rest of the Nien’s sleeping forms, Molly steps just inside the outermost ring of firelight.

There, mostly turned away from him with his back leaned up against a rotting old log, Caleb Widogast is buried in a book and singing softly under his breath.

It's a heavy, marching tune, made heavier still by the innate gruffness of the Zeminan language but Molly finds himself enthralled nevertheless. He's never heard a song like this before, a  low, syncopated melody wrapped up in steady language still so foreign to his ears . Like the bitter cold lingering in the air, the more brusque nature of the Zeminan is quite grounding, and after a moment, Mollymauk releases a shaky breath. 

“I didn’t know you sang.” he says in way of a proper greeting, taking long , practiced strides over to where Caleb sits.

The wizard jumps, fumbling his book in his battered hands and wheeling around to face Molly with a wild look glittering in his bluer than blue eyes. Like a creature caught unexpectedly by a beam of torch light. He place a hand over his heart and drops his chin to his chest.

“Scheiße Mollymauk.” he levels a steely glare the tieflings way. “What are you thinking, sulking around in the dark like this. I could have shot you.”

“And what a shame that would have been.” Molly hums, settling himself on a patch of grass beside Caleb, stretching out with one arm tucked behind his head. He spares a quick glance around the campsite. “Surly we didn’t leave you on second watch all by yourself.” he says “You can’t see shite in the dark.”

“It was Jester and myself for a while but ah-” Molly follows Caleb’s gaze a little further out until he spots a lump of fabric against the cart. The little blue tiefling is laying on her stomach, cheek squished against her open sketchbook as she snores. “She seemed tried.” Caleb says.

Molly nods, smiling at her kindly. “You should have woken one of the the others. You’re no used to us caught in the maw of some terrible beast.”

Caleb shrugs. “I am alright. I have the fire light and-” he waves a hand and the glittering lights that hang low over their heads ripple like candles floating on surface of a still lake. “- So you know- it is not too dark, and I uh I have the thread strung up around us. I would have woken the group if something happened.”

“Still, I’d sleep much better knowing they’re was someone watching your back.” Molly says.

Caleb studies him silently for a moment. The warm glow of the fire cast long shadows over his weathered features. Molly’s tail lashes against the ground, anxious and useless , kicking up a puff of dust.   
“What are you doing up so late a night, Mollymauk?” his tone is inquisitive, but his gaze is probing and earnest. 

Molly flashes him clumsy smile. “Nothing bad. Nothing you need to be worrying about.” it seems to do nothing to placate the other man’s curiosity. Mollymauk signs. “‘S already up, figured I’d take the last watch.” he supplies, hoping the half truth will be enough to assure him. 

“The next watch is not for a few hours still.” Caleb says.

“Is it now?” Molly says, though he could have guessed that to be the case. “Must be nice to always know what time it is. What time is it by the way?” he asked , hoping to distract Caleb from continuing his line of questioning. The nightmare is still so fresh in his mind. Wayward ashes from the fire that brush across his skin make him flinch and the the vacant space in the center of his chest still pulses dully. He keeps his fingers tangled in the loose fabric of his shirt. 

Caleb looks skyward for a long moment. It's a dark night, darker than most, with no moon lighting it with her silvery glow. The tapestry of stars above them is empty without her and Molly's chest aches nervously, feeling very much the same. 

“It’s ah- about two hours past the middle of the night I would say.” he says finally.

Molly bobs his head in a nod. An instinctual part of his wants to dismiss Caleb, tell the wizard to turn in early. That Molly doesn’t mind taking the rest of his shift and the next one too and that Caleb should go and get some sleep. But he desperately doesn't want to be a alone right now, and while sending the other man off to bed would be the right thing to do, Molly finds his presences soothing. He doesn't want to send Caleb away. So instead Molly remains quite, watches the ashen husks of logs smolder and crumble into the heart of the fire.

He hears Caleb shuffling more than he sees it, hears the crunch of leaves under the other man as he repositions himself. For one moment, Molly wonders if he’s getting up to leave.

“What are you doing, Mollymauk?” Caleb asks. 

“Trying enjoy this lovely night.” he says, but the words sound brittle even too his own ears.

He feels a distant tug on his horns and Molly bring his gaze around to look at his companion. Sprawled out on the ground like he is, the many odds and ends that adorn his horns are strewn out across the underbrush and Caleb has pick one out of the grass, fidgeting the chain between his fingers.

“You are not a morning person, Mollymauk.” He says, gaze firmly affixed to the jewelry he twist through his fingers. “You are always the last one to get out of bed in the morning, and hate being woken early. You go to bed late and would rise even later if you had your way. I find it rather hard to believe you would wake this early by choice.” he lift those blue eyes to meet Molly’s “What are you doing up?”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re too smart for your own good?” he says, tone more tight the teasing, like he had hoped. And yet Caleb’s stare is unrelenting. Molly sighs, shaken resolve starting to crumble. “I had another bad dream. Nothing you need to be worried about.” he uncurls his fingers from his shirt to give Caleb’s hand a few reassuring pats.

Caleb cocks his head to the side, the deep furrow in his brow exaggerated but the flickering shadows cast by the campfire. It's a rather cute look on him. 

“Do you often have nightmares, Mollymauk?” he asks.

“We all have nightmares.” Molly deflects with a shrug. 

“I have extended the invitation to Nott but- if you ever wanted to talk about these nightmares, you know I am always here to listen.” Caleb says.

Molly sighs, resting his hand  over his chest once more. “Well you know my rates Mister Caleb, a drink for a story.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Caleb says. 

“I know” Molly replies. He captures Caleb’s gaze. “Another time, perhaps.” he goes back to watching the crackling flames.

“You know that song you were singing was rather pretty, where’d ya learn it?” he asks after a moment, an attempt to direct the attention off of himself and the oddly raw moment they had just shared. 

He can still feel the pull of Caleb’s hands in his jewelry. “It’s a old Zeminian song.” he supply lamely

Molly rolls his eyes. “I could’ve guess that much.”

Caleb lets out a huff of air that could have almost been a chuckle. “Its- my mother- she would sing it all the time. We were very poor, you know, we didn't have much, and even less to sing about but my mother found joy in little things. It's a lot of farmland in that area so most people were little more than field labors and farmer. Its unkind work but she would hum while she worked in the fields, sang while she made dinner. I remember her sing this to me before she put me to bed, every night without fail.”   
“Sounds nice.” Molly says, trying to keep the numbness out of his voice.

A mother

What a novel idea.

“They are good memories.” Caleb continues. “We were dirt poor but we- had each other,,,” he coughs, it sounds strangled. “They are good memories.” he  repeats, softer this time.

“Well,,, please, don’t stop on my account.” Molly tries, unsure what else to say. 

Beside him Caleb goes very still. “I- am not much a singing.”

“I thought it sounded nice. The- the song, its- it was- it's  a nice- the,,,, song.” he says, petering off meekly at the end as his tongue runs away with itself.

Another long moment stretches between them, tension palpable in the air. Then Caleb sighs, presence relaxing as he leans back to rest fully against the rotten long once more. His fingers still spin one of Molly's gold chains between them. He takes a breath, then begins to sing again.

It's awkward at first, slow and halting, Caleb lacking both the volume and courage to truly carry the tune now that he suddenly finds himself with an audience. Molly can’t say that he minds however. Though the melody is broken and dragging it still carries a distinct warmth, one that grows more clear as Caleb slowly settles back into the sway he had had before the interruption. Mollymauk allows his eyes to flutter closed, focusing on the fascinating way the Zeminian breaks over Caleb lips, the inflection and rhythm of the words, until his mind grows too heavy to concentrate on much at all.

He soon finds himself teething on the edge, in danger of falling back asleep. He last, stomach plunging thought, before he slips from consciousness, is how very hard it is going to be to fall asleep without this. 


End file.
